


What You Were Made For

by Anonymous



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A frankly RIDICULOUS amount of cum, Anal Sex, Cameras, Cock Rings, Come Inflation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dildos, Druid sex magic I guess, Gang Rape, Keith/Shiro (mentioned) - Freeform, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sendak puts on a porn stream: the movie, Sendak's hand vibrates because of course it does, Seriously like...heed these tags, Sex Toys, Shiro has both a penis and a vagina at Sendak's request (blame the druids), Shiro/Adam (mentioned) - Freeform, Spreader Bars, Unrealistic sex up the wazoo, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 16:29:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20085277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Sendak lets Shiro wriggle like a worm on a hook. He snorts, then waves the cameras closer. He passes what looks like a remote to one of his subordinates. 'Every 100,000 GAC donor gets to choose the toy for five dobashes. If I like the results, I may decide to add to their time.' Sendak takes that final step, close enough now that his nose nearly brushes Shiro’s. 'He’s allowed to come when we reach one million.'"The druids create a faulty clone. Rather than dump the body, Sendak requests they hand him over to the soldiers as a sex toy. A porn stream ensues.





	What You Were Made For

**Author's Note:**

> I've only ever written vanilla porn before, so this was...definitely an experience.
> 
> I figure one GAC is worth like...half a U.S. dollar? Mmmm. I'm also assuming there are a lot of perverted Galra officers and commanders out there with a big salary and like, -2 things to spend their money on.

Shiro wakes, and for a moment he can’t remember who he is.

Memories crisscross his mind like loose threads. At once he sees the dashboard of the Black Lion; the cosmic glow of the astral plane; the nuclear pink of a druid suspension tube. Shiro cannot discern which is his actual location until he hears a gruff voice. It startles him from his stupor, and Shiro’s mindscape wavers. His eyes shoot open.

Shiro doesn’t see a cockpit or an eternal dusk or a human test tube. He sees a small grey room, not much larger than his old prison cell. It’s well lit. Galra patrol the space. There’s a table on one end of the room, topped with tools of various shapes and sizes. Shiro feels like he’s been asleep for days, and the glare of the lights casts spots across his vision. He can't make out the nature of the supplies on the table, but he’s sure they’re some kind of torture devices.

Because Shiro has done this song and dance before. He recognizes the scratchy texture of rope around his wrists. His feet graze the floor enough for him to balance on his front soles, but his arms are spread out above his head, each wrist strung up to a separate overhead beam. His old prison garb—a ragged shirt with thin, lint-littered black pants—tickles the skin of his back.

Shiro has been captured. Again.

Shiro feels his own breath ghost against his lips—processes the rasp of fabric, thick like leather all along his face. A harder material crosses over his mouth. Not a gag, but a muzzle. Shiro’s gut clenches; he has to fight not to toss his head back. He knows he can’t shake the thing off, as much as his frenzied rabbit brain might scream at him to _move, kick, fight_. He ought to conserve his energy, and stave off the panic for as long as possible.

Shiro tests the strength of the rope around his wrists. He wrestles down his frantic heart rate. As his senses return to him piece by piece, that same voice grates over his eardrums. For what feels like forever Shiro can’t parse out the words. He seeks out the source of the noise. His eyes, now adjusted to the glare of the room, settle on a familiar, formidable shape at the front of the room.

Sendak.

Like a flock of birds at a gunshot, any hope of calm flees Shiro's mind. His world narrows down to Sendak’s voice and the rapid whisper of his own breath against his face. His heart pounds against his ribs like a battering ram.

It’s as though Sendak can sense Shiro’s terror, because he turns to him suddenly:

“I see our star is awake.”

Shiro clenches his teeth. He can see past the panic enough to make out Sendak’s ugly smile; he crosses the room to stand about a foot from Shiro, flanked on both sides by Galra soldiers.

“I’ve already explained the game to our viewers,” he says. “But I suppose you wouldn’t have heard, would you? We wouldn’t want to leave you in the dark…” He rolls his shoulders back. Something clicks, and Shiro’s gaze flits between the two soldiers. A pair of dark lenses peer back at him.

Shiro’s heart lurches.

Cameras. Why are they holding cameras?

“You rebels should know,” Sendak drawls, “The Galra have sacrificed much in service of this war. We soldiers are kept from our families for years at a time—from our mates. It can be so difficult to find ourselves any…decent entertainment, while on duty.” A clawed finger comes to rest on the divot of Shiro’s throat, and his whole body goes rigid. “You’re going to help us have some fun, little doll. And raise a few thousand GAC along the way.”

Shiro can hear his pulse pound back and forth between his ears. He looks back to the table on the other side of the room. He can parse out some of the devices now; he’s sure his heart stops when he spots a—

No. Jesus Christ, this can’t be happening. Composure a fever dream now, Shiro wrenches back against his restraints. He manages a good lurch or two before his body grows slow and heavy. The result of a sedative, perhaps—or malnutrition. Shiro doesn’t know how long he’d been asleep before Sendak woke him, but his stomach feels raked clean, his bones splinter-thin.

Sendak lets Shiro wriggle like a worm on a hook. He snorts, then waves the cameras closer. He passes what looks like a remote to one of his subordinates. “Every 100,000 GAC donor gets to choose the toy for five dobashes. If I like the results, I may decide to add to their time.” Sendak takes that final step, close enough now that his nose nearly brushes Shiro’s. “He’s allowed to come when we reach one million.”

Shiro’s not sure what kind of sound he makes. It’s an animalistic protest—a noise of pure, primordial panic, muffled by the muzzle across his mouth. Sendak doesn’t so much as twitch at the outcry. He reaches two of his robotic fingers between Shiro’s legs and presses up against—

No, no, no—that doesn’t make any sense. _That doesn’t feel right_. There’s flesh that shouldn’t be on Shiro's body—heat and wetness and something that _sparks_ under Sendak’s fingers. Sendak speaks over Shiro’s warble: “You should thank me, you know. You were one of the defective ones; they were going to throw you out. I suggested you be altered…” he rubs at the fabric over Shiro’s crotch, back and forth. Shiro shudders backward, away from his touch; Sendak only follows. “For stress relief purposes. They’d built your body from scratch so many times…why, I got the sense they were _happy_ to experiment with a few extra parts.”

Sendak assumes a faster pace, his giant fingers teasing at the new organ between Shiro’s thighs. Higher up on his pelvis, Shiro’s cock stirs against the confines of his pants.

The thought hits Shiro like a bullet: It must have been repositioned to make room.

Shiro’s stomach twists like taffy. He writhes under Sendak's hand. Sendak, spurred on his reaction, only adds another finger to the barrage; Shiro’s legs are positioned more firmly apart. There’s a hum, and Sendak’s prosthetic warms between his legs. Shiro grinds his teeth as Sendak presses a heated pad further up against his—

Clit. God, he has a fucking clitoris. Tears blur Shiro’s vision. A slew of empty words leave his mouth, lost against the fabric of his muzzle. Over the wild clap of his heartbeat and his own gargled pleas, Shiro registers a long line of _pings_. His pants are wet now, from his cunt as well as the tip of his cock. As though through a smokescreen Shiro registers the movement of a cameraman. There are four of them, each arranged to capture a different angle of his pelvis.

In a pleased tone, Sendak remarks, “The pants come off at 150,000. The muzzle comes off at 350,000.”

This established, Sendak leans down. Shiro doesn’t have time to beg—a puff of breath hits the damp spot over his cock, and then a hot tongue drags up along the front of his pants. Shiro tosses his head back. Tears catch on the straps of his muzzle. Sendak suckles at the tip of Shiro's penis at the same moment his fingers curl back up against his clit, and a broken sound beats against the confines of Shiro’s muzzle.

Sendak rubs and licks—rubs and licks. More pings fill the room.

“We’ve passed 150,000, sir,” someone says, from what feels like a world away. _Comments. _The pings must be comments, or donations. “With our first 100,000 donor.”

Sendak laps one last stripe along the bulge of Shiro’s erection. His fingers leave Shiro’s crotch, and Shiro sobs—out of fear or relief he doesn’t know.

“My, that was fast. You’re even more popular than we anticipated, little doll.” The Galra from before holds up a screen, and Sendak’s prosthetic eye flashes. He grins. “Hmm. All right. A bit pedestrian, but I suppose these things are popular for a reason…” He steps away. “Hollock. Remove his pants.”

Hollok pockets the screen. That stubborn part of Shiro flares up like a firecracker, and even as his muscles fail him he manages to wriggle back from the Galra’s hands.

Hollok grumbles at Shiro as though he were a spoiled child. He grapples with his ankles for a moment. Fabric secured, he wrestles Shiro’s pants off his legs. Cool air hits Shiro’s wet crotch. “Bring the bar too, would you? All this _squirming_ is getting tiresome.”

“You think so? I find it endearing.” There’s a _clink_ of metal as Sendak selects his materials from the table. “But very well; I don’t see why not. It will hardly serve a purpose once he's used the last of his strength.”

Shiro doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to know. But his eyes betray him. A spreader bar gleams between the fingers of Sendak’s right hand. In his prosthetic he holds a dildo.

Shiro screws his eyes shut. His mind feels like an abandoned warehouse; he runs a flashlight over the ruins, desperate for some hint of connection to his Lion—some means of escape. He has to hope the others will find him. Has to hope he’s the same Shiro from all those visions, and they’ll know to even _look_.

A giant hand curls around his foot, and Shiro gasps back to life. He stares at Sendak, kneeled below him with the stretcher bar extended. A sharp click marks the lock of the cuff around Shiro’s left ankle. Shiro makes to kick Sendak with his free foot, but Sendak grips the leg between his prosthetic fingers—and he’s weak as a butterfly under those massive claws. Shiro can’t do much more than coil backward as his legs are pried apart. Shiro feels the muscles of his cunt contract. He’s spread open now, far enough to strain. A camera lens follows a dribble of discharge down the length of Shiro’s thigh. The second clasp closes, and Sendak releases his feet, position fixed.

“There,” Sendak declares. Pings fill the spaces between his words: “Arkin, prepare him, would you?”

Another Galra peels themselves from the far wall. It occurs to Shiro that there are several lined up along the edges of the room, as though at the front rows of an event. Arkin—a lean, hunched Galra with droopy ears—pauses by the table on the way to the cameras. He grabs some kind of vial.

Lube. In a vague way, Shiro wonders whether he should be grateful for the prep. Unbidden memories crowd his mind by association. He feels the rumble of Adam’s laugh against his chest where they pressed together on his dorm bed; feels the pull of a slick finger along his rim.

That’s right. Maybe he can picture Adam. Or—

No. Not that. Not even to get through something like this—he can’t do that to Keith. Can’t stand to poison his memory—associate his name with such a nightmare scenario.

A finger—cold, and larger than Adam’s—presses up against Shiro’s asshole. He clenches down and pushes forward, away from Arkin’s hands. Arkin restrains him with a hand around his waist. He's not the sort of Galra with claws, but the nails of his fingers still sting Shiro's skin. The slicked finger returns to Shiro’s hole. He’s held steady as the pad breaches his rim. Shiro hisses through his teeth. He feels the digit roam along his walls. The wetness—a cream more than a liquid—tingles like pins and needles. Shiro keeps his gaze dead-set ahead, past Sendak’s face to the opposite wall. He refuses to give the cameras a reaction.

But then he recalls the advice of an old cellmate.

The day after Shiro's second arena battle—before they brought him to Haggar’s operation theatre—an older fighter had sat down across from him on the cell floor. Scars had wrapped around his arms like fishnets; he’d rolled up his shirt for Shiro to see.

_When they torture you_, he’d told Shiro, apropos of nothing, _don’t fight against the current_. _It is wiser to surrender to the pain: to become an extension of it. Forget who you were before it began. Let yourself move and scream however you need in order to survive in that moment. It is less terrible that way—when you have nothing to lose, and no dignity to preserve. _

Shiro had failed to follow that advice when they’d taken his arm. Now, as a second finger breaches his rim, he weighs the validity of the old alien’s words.

Perhaps he’d like to break early. To make the conscious choice to surrender, and take that privilege away from his captors.

It feels so wrong. But Shiro would rather emerge from this nightmare with his life than his pride. He has to relax, or the dildo could tear him apart—lube and fingers be damned.

There’s an ugly squelch as Arken’s fingers push more lube between Shiro’s ass cheeks. The Galra strains to scissor him apart. That same tingle fizzles up Shiro's spine. Shiro musters up his courage. He lets his lungs fill with dirty cell air. Then he orders his muscles to unclench.

It barely helps. The foreign finger; the curled hand on his hip; the wetness of his ass and thighs; the chill of the room; the eyes of the cameras and his captives alike—tension festers under Shiro’s skin and grips him like a vice. But Arkin must have sensed a change, because the hand drops from Shiro’s hip. The fingers leave his ass.

“He’s all yours,” Arkin growls.

Sendak huffs out an affirmative. He holds up the dildo for the cameras. It’s long, black, and curved, with thick balls at the base—bigger than any Shiro’s ever taken. Adherent to the alien’s advice, Shiro allows the fear to claw up his stomach, all the way up to his throat. It spills out of his mouth. The muzzle swallows his outcry.

Sendak must hear some echo of the sound, because his grin goes Cheshire-like. “Oh, please,” he says, and moves to stand behind him. “This is child’s play. You’ll have to set your sights a little higher if you want to take my cock by the end of the night.”

His cock. That’s enough to set Shiro’s mind ablaze. With the muscle of a newborn he lunges back—forward—any whichaway to escape Sendak’s touch. The ropes bite his wrists; metal stings his ankles. His neck hair rises with the gust of Sendak’s breath.

“Now, now,” Sendak chuckles—so close that his hair almost brushes Shiro's temple. “There’s no need to panic, little doll. I oversaw your creation myself; you were made to fit much larger toys than this.”

The dildo brushes Shiro’s asshole, and he sobs. The noise, however muffled, seems to excite his captor; Shiro feels Sendak’s breath stutter over the shell of his ear.

“GAC?” he rumbles to the room.

Someone says, “250,000, sir.”

“Such a pity. I would have loved to hear his voice.”

A cameraman crowds closer to Shiro’s back. The tip of the toy passes Shiro’s rim. His body reacts without conscious permission; Shiro clenches around the dildo, desperate to preserve some line of defense. Sendak doesn’t so much as pause. In a slow, steady motion he forces the toy between Shiro's cheeks. It knocks the wind out of Shiro’s chest, and he arches back like a snapped bowstring. His thighs spasm; his rim clenches and unclenches around the toy. Another rush of discharge beads down his legs. The pings ring out like physical blows.

It’s too much, too fast: Shiro feels like his whole body will split apart. The dildo stretches on and on and on. It fills him past the point of _stuffed_; Shiro wails as his muscles shift and strain.

“There,” Sendak hums from nowhere and everywhere. Still the toy slides on. Sendak's flesh hand comes up to grasp Shiro’s ass cheek. “Not so bad, hmm?”

Shiro can’t react. The toy reaches his prostate, and he _contorts_ like a man possessed, speared on the dildo and forced apart by the spreader bar. Sendak laughs. He redacts the toy by a small margin, then crushes it back against Shiro's prostate.

Shiro howls. His muzzle wrangles the sound—but the cameras must catch some echo of his pain and pleasure, because the pings pick up like applause. Sendak grinds the toy back and forth along the channel of Shiro’s rectum. Whether because of the toy, the properties of the lube, or the size of Shiro's gland, the sensations are brighter—more powerful than Shiro has ever known. He can barely see for the sparks behind his eyes. Heat crests within his abdomen. By all accounts he should have come by now. Sendak pounds his prostate, and each strike threatens to push him over the edge—but still his orgasm alludes him.

_He’s allowed to come when we reach one million._

What the _fuck_ have they done to him?

“Admiral Laud suggests you use your finger as well,” Hollok calls from the opposite wall. A chorus of pings second the request.

Over the vulgar squelch of lube, Shiro can _hear_ Sendak’s grin. “Well, who am I to deny our esteemed admiral?”

Sendak returns his prosthetic fingers to the space between Shiro’s legs. He nudges them between Shiro’s labia. There’s a loud whir—

And then they start to vibrate.

Time stops. Shiro feels the rapid-fire shock of his own heartbeat; the relentless drag of the dildo against his prostate; and now the hot rattle of Sendak’s fingers where they paw circles around his clit. Any move to evade his touch lands him more firmly on the dildo; any action against the dildo forces him further onto Sendak’s fingers. In his hysteria Shiro humps between the two points of contact, addled brain torn between the desire to escape and to _come_. Sendak only chuckles. He presses his thumb more firmly along Shiro’s clit, then thrust his free fingers up his hole. Shiro chokes as they catch on—what, his G spot? It doesn’t make any sense. Someone has removed the muzzle from Shiro’s face. His wails boom across the room. The cameras are poised at his ass and crotch, lenses extended to capture the flex of his vaginal muscles; the contraction of his rim; the endless buzz of Sendak’s slick fingers as they emerge and disappear between Shiro’s folds; the curve of his penis as he strains for release.

“My, what a perfect little slut you are,” Sendak muses, over the rush of pings; the suck of liquid; the hum of his own fingers. He pushes up and up along his vaginal walls, and Shiro fears he’ll vibrate apart. “Look at you. So wet and eager for the cameras.” He marks the comment with a wiggle of his fingers. His prosthetic flares. The whir grows louder; Sendak's fingers quake faster and faster against Shiro’s cunt. They perform another thrust right as Sendak pushes the dildo down against Shiro’s prostate.

Shiro screams. Liquid patters onto the floor: discharge and lube.

_He can’t come, he can’t come, he can’t come_.

Sendak doesn’t slow. Doesn’t dial down the prosthetic. Someone reads out the numbers: 400,000, then 450,000, then—

“We have our next 100,000 donor.”

Shiro feels a rush of—what? A poisonous cocktail of pain and _disappointment_ as Sendak’s fingers slip from his cunt. Shame slams him like a wall. More liquid hits the floor. Sendak releases his grip around the dildo. It stays there, caught between Shiro’s taut muscles as he says, “Oh? What’s the latest request?”

“The Harkik.”

A Galra word. Shiro's muscles ache. His vision slips and slides. He’s sure he’s about to pass out, but somehow the darkness only hovers on his periphery. Shiro’s not sure whether to blame the druids or his own stubborn nature. He floats, torn between planes of awareness, as several Galra move to the side table.

It takes some time, but at last Shiro manages to pull his focus back to his captors. A device passes between them. Shiro makes out what appears to be another dildo, with straps fitted around the base. A plastic tube runs from the balls down to some kind of round, opaque container on the floor.

Shiro doesn’t even have the mind to frizzle up as the Galra approach.

_Don’t fight against the current_.

Sendak, still at Shiro’s back, grasps the dildo still propped between Shiro’s ass cheeks. He yanks it out without preamble or finesse. Shiro wheezes at the loss. His rim twitches, and lube dribbles down the line of his ass.

“Do you know, I haven’t had the chance to try this one yet,” Sendak tells the cameras. Such confirms Shiro’s suspicion—that he’s done this before with other prisoners. “It required quite a lot of _preparation_.”

There are snorts from the back of the room. It’s as though the pings take on a curious pitch.

Shiro feels his cunt throb between his legs. A gross desire to be _filled_ bursts within his stomach. The new dildo—bigger than the last, but only by a small margin—stretches him from behind. It stops a needles-breadth from his prostate. Shiro resists the urge to squirm backward—forward—he’s not sure which. A cameraman replaces a cartridge. Cool material ghosts around Shiro’s legs. Sendak’s assistants secure three sets of straps; one around each thigh, the last across Shiro's pelvis. The buckles snap closed, loud as broken bones. The cameramen take up new positions around Shiro’s ass and cunt.

Claws skitter across Shiro’s hands. Shiro hangs there, paralyzed as Sendak picks apart the knots at his wrists. They come loose. Shiro pitches forward, and the cameramen scramble—but before he can crash to the floor, giant arms wrap around his midsection. A cold chest plate meets the back of Shiro’s shirt. Goosebumps raise the hair on his shoulders. Sendak leans down, far enough that his fur brushes the side of Shiro’s face.

“I thought you might appreciate some freedom, little doll.”

Shiro swallows. In that moment he has never felt so tiny; with Sendak fully upright, Shiro's head barely brushes his collarbone. His full prosthetic hand could encircle Shiro’s waist.

Shiro doesn’t want to know how someone of that size plans to enter him.

All at once Sendak grasps Shiro’s arm. He’s lowered to the ground; Shiro’s wet ass meets the floor. The dildo bumps against his prostate, and he shivers from his tips of his toes to the ends of his fingers. He does his best to detach—to float away from his body—as Arkin unravels another line of rope. He kneels to bind Shiro’s wrists.

“There,” Sendak declares, as Arkin secures the rope. “That should do.”

Sendak steps away towards the wall. Arkin tests his knots with one last tug, then follows suit. Achy and exposed, Shiro bows forward on the floor. There’s no way to reach a comfortable position with a toy up his ass and his legs separated by a metal bar, but he does his best not to put pressure on the dildo. The cameras whir, the sound barely discernible from the hum of the ship. Shiro shuts his eyes. Does his best to focus.

The voice calls from the back of the room: “Allow me to do the honors.” 

There’s a click. A few meters from Shiro on the floor, the container crackles to life.

The dildo starts to expand.

Horror swarms Shiro’s mind. Focus abandoned, he spills forward onto the floor, as though to claw away from the machine—but the straps keep the dildo firmly seated between his ass cheeks. In his panic Shiro finds the strength to army crawl a few feet across the metal floor. The cameramen follow his last-ditch scramble with a dangerous kind of patience, like a pack of wolves gathered around a wounded deer. One scoots closer to get a shot of Shiro's asshole, red and taut as his body strains to accomodate the toy. A renewed sling of pings serve as an audience thank-you.

At last Shiro’s muscles buckle. He collapses onto his side, one leg propped above the other by necessity of the spreader bar. His cunt aches for lack of stimulus. The dildo throbs along his rectum. Shiro moans. The floor bites at his exposed skin. He turns to face one of the cameras.

It’s at that moment that the dildo starts to _move_. It pulses back and forth once—twice—three times, up towards Shiro’s anus and then back down against his prostate. Up and back, up and back, down the channel of his rectum.

It’s too slow; too slick, even with the taut sting of his skin. Shiro lurches up onto his hands and knees. He's caught between a sob and a whine as he grinds back against the toy. The spreader bar clacks against the floor with the sway of his body.

Sendak speaks from the other side of the room: “Looks like our little doll would like us to pick up the pace. Shall we humor him?”

A new slew of pings, delivered so fast they bleed together. Sendak laughs.

“Well, since you insist.”

Another click. The machine rumbles, and then the dildo rams Shiro’s prostate. Shiro shrieks, his body thrown forward. His bound hands barely keep him upright as he rocks back and forth, at the mercy of the toy between his ass cheeks. As Shiro thrashes, something else hits his prostate—something liquid. Shiro spasms and keens. His hips snap back. His cunt produces another spurt of discharge. Someone moans from across the room; Shiro makes his own broken noise. A cameraman moves to get a closeup of his face; his open mouth; his blank eyes.

A steady stream gushes against Shiro's prostate, hot and thick, for what feels like an age. It doesn’t stop, or even thin. Just pummels Shiro from the tip of the swollen toy, on and on. Shiro’s limbs are beyond his control. His body moves as though directed by an outside force. He humps the air like a rabbit, lost to his quest for release.

“Enjoying ourselves?” It’s as though Sendak’s voice comes from the bottom of a well. “I’ve been told it feels like someone coming inside you, over and over. Would you call that an accurate description?”

Tears dribble off Shiro’s chin—between his parted lips. He tastes salt and dust and recycled air.

“Please…” he wrings out at last, from the very pit of his stomach.

Sendak’s voice rumbles like a purr: “Please what, little one?”

“_Stop_.” His hands strain against the ropes. Shiro chants the words like a mantra as the tube pistons more liquid—semen or otherwise he doesn’t know—against his nerves: “Stop, please, please stop, stop, stop, _please stop_…”

More pings. Hollok chirps, “700,000, and our next 100,000 donor.”

“And what would they like?”

“The cock ring. Preferably without removing the harkik.”

Shiro can feel his lips move, but he doesn’t know what he says. One last pulse of the dildo, and his arms buckle. He crumples onto his front. Shiro turns his face against the floor as the liquid sloshes through his rectum, ass elevated to grant the toy better access to his prostate. 

A hand finds Shiro's cock soon after. A metal ring slides down to the very base of his penis. Fingers brush his balls, and Shiro can’t bite back a whine. He needs someone to_ touch_ him—push him over the edge. But the hand withdraws. Footsteps mark the Galra's exit. Shiro's not sure whether he calls after them.

It's at that point that the ring turns on. It vibrates, fast as Sendak’s fingers. Shiro knows he screams due to the contraction of his throat, but the sound doesn't reach his ears. He wishes he could pass out; wishes he could come; wishes he could _run_. His whole universe narrows down to the drag of the dildo; the cold ache of the stretcher bar; the buzz of the band around his cock. In that moment Voltron could burst through the door and Shiro would be none the wiser. To him there’s only his pleasure and his shame—the taste of his tears and the whir of cameras.

There’s no way to know how long Shiro stays like that, a puddle on the floor, the fight pummeled out of his broken body. Someone calls out numbers. It’s like they’re a galaxy away.

At last a voice reaches him through the maelstrom.

“He’s ready.”

The vibration around Shiro’s cock cuts off like a blown fuse. The dildo stills; the pulse of liquid stops. Clawed hands pluck open the straps around Shiro's legs and abdomen. There’s a wet noise as Sendak draws the dildo, deflated now, from Shiro’s pliant body. It’s as though a dam breaks; liquid gushes down the skin of Shiro’s ass. Sendak stoppers the stream soon enough; the tip of a cock pushes at Shiro’s entrance.

Against all odds, hysteria affords Shiro’s body one last act of defiance. He plants his bound hands on the floor, then uses the traction to tug his limp form towards the door. His arms and thighs quake. The flow of liquid from his ass rolls down and down to tickle the skin of his labia.

There are snickers from the soldiers along the far wall. Giant hands clasp Shiro’s hips—at a low angle. Sendak must have kneeled, or sat down. He drags Shiro back towards his chest. Shiro scrambles for purchase on the floor, but there’s no hope with his hands bound. Sendak pulls him over the ledge of his crossed legs, and he's reduced to a limp puppet.

That same tip presses against his anus. Placed atop Sendak’s lap like this, Shiro can only will his body to accommodate Sendak’s cock. 

It’s a slow progression. Sendak forces the first part of his penis between Shiro’s ass cheeks. He hisses. The cameras are back, congregated around Sendak and the open display of Shiro’s cunt and cock.

“So tight, even after all that preparation,” Sendak scolds. He uses his grip on Shiro’s pelvis to coax his body further back onto his penis.

Shiro has run out of tears. He’s hollow—once more void of desire beyond that of his release. He doesn’t have the mind to be mortified as he ruts back onto Sendak’s cock. The motion pushes Sendak further up his rectum, and Sendak groans. His clawed hand moves to cover Shiro’s belly. It’s larger than before, swollen with fluid—cum or otherwise, Shiro doesn’t know. The fingers press down; Shiro gasps.

“Mm,” Sendak growls, voice thick. “Would anyone like to help our guest relax?”

Shiro registers the clap of footfall. There’s some discussion from the far wall, and then two soldiers approach—Arkin, and a tall Galra with wide orange eyes. Shiro shudders, halfway seated on Sendak’s dick, cunt exposed to the cool air of the cell. He doesn’t have the sense to worry whether his muscles will tear, though his ass strains around Sendak’s cock. His eyes are glazed, vision watery as the two soldiers kneel before him on the floor. The cameramen are like disgruntled flies, unsure where to position themselves for the best angle of Shiro's torture. One arranges their camera to capture a closeup of Shiro’s ass; the others split themselves between Shiro’s cunt, his face, and a midshot of the whole assemblage.

“Any particular requests?” Arkin asks. He rakes his gaze over Shiro’s body.

Sendak presses his palm down onto Shiro’s distended stomach. Shiro hitches backward; a white-hot flare of pain and pleasure skitters up his abdomen. The noise he makes verges on a mewl.

At last Sendak addresses Arkin and his friend: “Oh, I’m not picky. Just make sure to stimulate every part of him.”

Arkin’s grin is shark-like.

“I’ll take his pussy.”

He scoots closer on the floor, then dips his head—past Shiro’s stomach and cock. With the bar to keep Shiro spread, there’s enough room for Arkin to nuzzle his face between his parted thighs.

Sendak pushes Shiro downward at the same moment Arkin’s tongue finds Shiro’s clit. Shiro convulses; he gapes as lips close around his clit and _suck_. His head falls back against Sendak’s scapula. Sendak massages Shiro’s stomach with one hand; the other draws him ever closer onto his cock. Shiro can feel his length pass his prostate; every shift of his hips sends another line of electricity up Shiro’s spine. He twitches helplessly as Arkin suckles on his clit—as new fingers push up between his labia.

On his other side, the second Galra soldier reaches for Shiro’s cock. Fingers close around his length; a thumb teases at his wet slit, to smear a bead of precum along the side of his cock. Shiro can’t see. Can’t cry out. Can’t do more than lay there and spasm, torn asunder on all sides, as the hand on his penis picks up a messy back and forth pace. It pumps him as Arkin slides a fourth finger up his cunt. The two soldiers work out of sync; one hand moves up as the other moves sideways. Shiro moans. He feels another gush of liquid pulse out onto Arkin’s hand.

Sendak snarls. He snaps his hips forward—not enough to dislodge Arkin, but enough for his cock to grate against Shiro’s prostate. Shiro knows he’s bottomed out. He wonders whether he could feel Sendak’s cock, should he place a hand to his belly. Sendak pulls out by the barest margin, then yanks Shiro back back onto his cock. Pleas and promises are torn from Shiro’s throat as Sendak’s balls brush his ass.

“800,000.”

It’s not long before Arkin picks up on the cadence of Sendak's thrusts. He learns to move with Shiro so that his lips and tongue barely leave his cunt. He’s fit what feels like his whole hand between Shiro’s labia now. He drags the fingers up and down; a chuckle shudders around Shiro’s clit. Stars burst behind Shiro's eyes. All the while, the hand around his cock tugs and tugs. It’s huge, with a calloused texture that pulls at his delicate skin.

“850,000.”

Shiro’s ankles tug at the spreader bar. Cold air tickles his cunt between laps of Arkin’s tongue. Sendak’s voice booms over Shiro’s head, wavered with pleasure: “And you were worried I wouldn’t fit. See how well you take me…how greedy you are for my cock. How your cunt swallows up Arkin’s fingers.” He huffs as his cock drags against the walls of Shiro’s ass. Arkin’s tongue plays with his clit. Shiro moans from the very center of his chest. “You should consider yourself lucky. What creature can know exactly what they were made for…and get to fulfill that function? Look at you. You were made to sit on my cock; to entertain my soldiers. And you perform so perfectly…Our perfect little sex toy. So good to us...”

The hand around Shiro’s cock pumps faster and faster. The room spins. Teeth graze Shiro's clit.

“Please,” Shiro wails. “Oh god, oh fu—“ Sendak wrenches him backwards, and he swears he can _feel _the cum slosh against the walls of his stomach. “_Please!_”

“Please what?”

Shiro’s muscles flutter around Arkin’s lips. The other Galra laps a line down his cock. “Let me _come!_ Please—please let me—”

But there’s no mercy; no release. The pings buzz under Shiro’s skin. Hollock relays the numbers: “900,000. 950,000…”

The mystery Galra’s lips close around Shiro’s cock the same moment the ring bursts to life.

Shiro’s mind cracks right down the middle. A scream splits the air. It goes on and on, until Shiro’s sure his throat will splinter apart from strain. He bucks with a force he didn’t know he possessed, and Arkin has to retract his mouth and fingers from his cunt. Sendak seizes the opportunity to deepen his thrusts, unhindered now by a face between Shiro’s legs. The other Galra maintains his purchase on Shiro's cock; he sucks at the tip as the ring vibrates at the base—as Sendak forces his enormous cock up and back down Shiro’s rectum.

“So good,” he parrots. “So good…”

His prosthetic fingers return to Shiro’s cunt; a replacement for Arkin’s tongue. The vibration brushes, then settles upon Shiro’s abused clit. Shiro’s eyes roll back. He tastes blood. He seizes, and Sendak slams against his prostate.

It's enough to push Sendak over the edge. His metal fingers stutter around Shiro’s cunt. A new wave of cum pulses past Shiro’s prostate. Sendak rides Shiro past his aftershocks. The Galra at Shiro’s front reaches up to tease the underside of his cock. He swallows Shiro whole. Another scream rips up Shiro's throat. Sendak moans and stuffs his fingers back up Shiro’s cunt—

“1,000,000.”

And there’s a sharp beep from across the room. The Galra pulls away from his cock, and Shiro _comes_.

It’s more than an orgasm. Pleasure tears through Shiro like a rabid animal. Fire fills his veins, from his pelvis to his chest to his brain. The sensation only builds—one wave after the other, piled on top of one another, until Shiro is sure he’ll burst from the pressure. Cum shoots from his cock. His cunt pulses. A loud whine fills Shiro’s ears, like the hum of an empty room. The world bleaches away.

The cameras cluster around as his body rattles apart. A voice rumbles,

“Yes, go on. Just like that…” 

Shiro struggles to claw his way to the surface of his pleasure. He’s vaguely aware of Sendak’s touch where his claws rake lines down his sides. Shiro convulses as his cock slides from his broken body—a cadaveric spasm. His orgasm crests at last, and he drops off the edge—down, down, down to the cell floor where cold metal sucks the heat from his skin; where cameras track the progression of cum from Shiro’s anus.

Someone unclasps the bar from his ankles. Claws pick apart the knots around his wrists. Shiro sobs, but no new tears find his cheeks. He’s pulled to a warm chest.

Resistance doesn’t cross Shiro’s mind. He’s wrung dry; boneless under Sendak’s arms—still high on the rush of his orgasm.

“A lovely display,” Sendak rumbles. That hand finds Shiro’s abdomen, and the pressure forces another gush of cum from his anus. “Rest now. You’ll be needed later.”

It’s as good a respite as any. Shiro’s eyes droop closed. The room fades away, and he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> My brain at 2am: Wait. If he has both a vagina and a penis. Does that mean he has two urethras? Which one does he pee out of? 
> 
> Me: Oh my gOD
> 
> Anyway—that was certainly a fic. Feel free to play with this premise if you like. Comments are love, comments are life.
> 
> Edit: Ayyy, people seem to like this fic! Feel free to suggest stuff you'd like to see in a sequel.


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